David Kaufmann

MY LIFE AS EDDIE HASKELL, as the liquid reminder of indifference, as water moving in two directions because of the tides which are literal from the bay. You cannot swim, but they tell you you can certainly eat the fish. The Watergate, which is famous, the White House which is famous, the parts that are not. My television fame as a backdrop, as Rock Creek Parkway, as the Oval Office, or the Lincoln Memorial. My fame as a memorial to everything that has happened, to everyone who's felt the recoil of single events. My fame as the emblem of the republic: an eagle on a pin, the indian planted on the Capitol Dome. My emblem as the arrow's extension of flight in the air. My air of complete control which is the aura of indifference I mentioned before. There are three sisters in the river and I am not one.

MY LIFE AS EDDIE HASKELL, as my time as the seal of the Empire state. For a long while I recoiled from fame, yearned for the ease of single events. I wish I could say I don't remember you, but I do. You are the Hudson River crossings, the Lincoln Tunnel or the Tappan Zee Bridge. You are the crest that Brooklyn makes as the East River curves into the bay on your coast guard boat. Nothing but borders. You patrol, I remove. I have shipped it all before. I have gone shopping in the neighborhood, I'll be back soon! The latch-key kid strikes a note I know and delivers the letter you eventually become. I have been a park for way too long, and resemble a hill even more than I want.

MY LIFE AS EDDIE HASKELL, as my descriptions of plants and animals in their natural homes. Who cares about fame? My time as the brother master of smells, of sulphur the length of the Dead Sea, of urine near the Dome of the Rock. All the famous events happened here, only once. My place as a blue strike, the Mediterranean, the single tower that yearns. In every one of the pictures, the smells disappear, becoming a distance, a mood, the hard base of experience you're trying to overcome, the stereo recording of an arrow in the air. As the postcard of the mosaic. As the old city in the gold ornaments no one is giving away. They are selling them, we are buying them, somewhere there is dinner but we aren't there yet. You might talk about travelling but I'll talk about smells. Go to that window. Look out. Everywhere you go there is someone, and he is always just as ready as you.